What Genre Does 'Changing Habits' Belong To?

I got hooked on his videos during his early channel era, and watching the shift over the years has been wild. In the beginning—around the mid-2010s—his uploads were much more low-key and centered on vegan recipes, lifestyle stuff, and personal vlogs. The portions were normal for a YouTuber filming food content: cooking tutorials, taste tests, and chatty commentary. That period felt like the work of someone experimenting with content and identity, building a quiet community that appreciated recipe videos and the occasional personal update. Sometime around 2016 he started moving into mukbang territory, and that’s where the before-and-after really becomes obvious. The change wasn’t overnight, but the pivot toward eating-on-camera, huge portions, and highly produced setups clearly marked a new phase. The reasons felt partly creative and partly practical—mukbangs quickly drew attention and ad revenue, and the dramatic, emotional style he later adopted kept viewers glued. Collaborations, prop-like food, and louder editing made the videos feel more like performance art than simple food content. After that shift his on-camera habits evolved into consistently huge meals, repeated indulgent food themes, and a more theatrical persona. Over time that translated to visible weight gain and a tendency toward emotionally charged, confrontational videos. A lot of viewers, including me, saw a creator leaning into extremes: the food choices became calorie-heavy, the editing emphasized conflict and breakdowns, and his daily eating patterns in videos suggested a long-term lifestyle change. I try not to turn speculation into diagnosis, but the transformation is noticeable if you follow his chronology. I always come back to the human side. Whether you love the spectacle or worry about the health angle, it's been one of the most dramatic YouTube evolutions in the last decade. For me, the timeline—from vegan creator to mukbang performance star in the mid-to-late 2010s, then increasingly extreme content into the 2020s—reads like a cautionary tale about how platform incentives can reshape someone's public life, for better or worse. Personally, I’m left fascinated and a little uneasy about how content shapes creators' habits and identities.

Lately I’ve been leaning into a simple principle: curiosity beats certainty. I coach people to treat discovery like a muscle—tiny, regular reps rather than a once-in-a-quarter sprint. That starts with psychological safety: I make space for 'I don’t know' and reward questions more than perfect answers. Modeling matters too; I’ll share my messy interview notes or hypotheses in progress so others see how iterative learning actually looks. Practically, I push for rituals and scaffolds—weekly customer interviews, assumption-mapping sessions, and a shared artifact like an opportunity map. I teach folks how to frame decisions as learning bets: what would we learn if we ran this experiment? That shifts focus from defending features to validating outcomes. I also pair teammates for interviews and synthesis so the habit spreads through hands-on practice. Finally, I emphasize feedback loops: short experiments, clear metrics for learning (not vanity metrics), and public reflection on outcomes. Celebrating small discoveries keeps momentum. It’s been amazing to watch teams slowly trade frantic delivery for thoughtful curiosity, and I still get a kick when someone asks the right question out of the blue.

Scaling through continuous discovery is totally doable, and I've watched it feel magical when a team actually commits. I used to treat discovery like an occasional scan—interviews once a quarter, a survey here and there—but when we made it weekly and ritualized the learnings, the product roadmap stopped being a guess and started being a conversation. 'Continuous Discovery Habits' became our shorthand for running fast, cheap experiments and listening hard to customers while balancing metrics like engagement and retention. What made it work was not the tools but the habits: one-hour customer conversations, frequent prototype tests, and an 'opportunity solution tree' that kept our ideas aligned to real problems. Leaders who supported small bets and tolerated failed experiments were the secret sauce. Scaling didn't mean slowing discovery; it meant multiplying those small, rapid feedback loops across cross-functional teams and codifying the patterns so new hires could pick them up quickly. I'm still excited by how messy, persistent curiosity turns into actual scale—it's gritty but deeply satisfying.

Reading 'Tools of Titans' felt like unlocking a cheat code for life, especially when it came to productivity. One habit that stuck with me is the idea of 'morning pages'—jotting down unfiltered thoughts first thing in the day. It’s like decluttering your brain before the chaos begins. Another game-changer was the concept of 'time-blocking,' where you assign specific tasks to chunks of time instead of floating through a to-do list. It turns vague goals into concrete actions. I also loved the emphasis on physical movement; even a 10-minute walk can reboot your focus. The book’s mix of high achievers’ routines made it clear: productivity isn’t about working harder, but working smarter. What surprised me was how small tweaks, like avoiding screens for the first hour of the day or using a standing desk, added up over time. I’ve since adopted a 'no email before noon' rule, which forces me to prioritize my own projects instead of reacting to others’ demands. The book’s diversity of perspectives—from athletes to CEOs—showed there’s no one-size-fits-all approach, but experimenting with these habits helped me find my rhythm. Now, I can’t imagine going back to my old scatterbrained ways.

Keeping a journal for books I’ve read has completely transformed my reading habits. It’s not just about tracking titles; it’s about reflecting on what I’ve absorbed. Writing down thoughts, favorite quotes, and even frustrations helps me engage more deeply with the material. I notice patterns in my preferences—like how I gravitate toward character-driven stories—which guides future picks. The act of journaling also slows me down, making me savor each book instead of rushing to the next. Over time, revisiting past entries shows how my tastes and perspectives evolve, turning reading into a purposeful journey rather than a passive hobby. Another benefit is accountability. When I see gaps in my journal, it nudges me to prioritize reading over mindless scrolling. I also love creating themed lists, like ‘books that made me cry’ or ‘unreliable narrators,’ which adds a playful challenge. The journal becomes a personalized literary map, celebrating milestones like finishing a daunting classic or discovering a new favorite author. It’s a small ritual that makes reading more intentional and rewarding.

Reading a book a day sounds intense, but it’s a game-changer if you want to build discipline and immerse yourself in stories. I used to struggle with consistency until I set a daily goal. The habit forces you to prioritize reading over mindless scrolling or binge-watching. You start noticing patterns in writing styles, themes, and character development across genres. Even if you don’t finish a book in one sitting, the act of opening it daily keeps your mind engaged. Over time, your comprehension and speed improve naturally. Plus, the sense of accomplishment from finishing books back-to-back is addictive. It’s like leveling up in a game—each book makes you sharper. I also found that mixing genres keeps things fresh. One day it’s fantasy like 'The Name of the Wind,' the next it’s a thriller like 'Gone Girl.' This variety prevents burnout and broadens your perspective. The key is to choose books you genuinely enjoy, not just what’s trendy. If a book drags, ditch it—life’s too short for forced reads. The goal is to make reading as habitual as brushing your teeth. Once it sticks, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.

There's something quietly radical about how 'The Artist's Way' sneaks creative training into ordinary life, and I've felt it work like a gentle boot camp for my scattered brain. I started doing the 'three pages' on a weekday when my apartment smelled like coffee and the news felt too loud. Those morning pages are the backbone: three longhand pages of stream-of-consciousness that empty the garbage can of worry so the creative stuff can breathe. Over weeks I noticed less circular thinking and more tiny ideas sticking around long enough to be acted on. The book's weekly 'artist date' pushed me to treat my inner life like a museum—I'll wander a secondhand bookstore, try a pottery class, or take an aimless walk to feed my curiosity. That ritual of scheduled play transformed my weekends from recovery time into idea-farming time. Add to that the gentle dismantling of the inner critic (the book gives you language and exercises to spot and reframe the complaints), and you get a slow but steady shift in habits: daily unloading, weekly nourishment, and regular small challenges. It’s not glamorous, but it makes creativity a habit instead of a mood, and for me that meant more finished sketches, more written scenes, and fewer nights waiting for inspiration to 'show up'. I still fall off the wagon sometimes, but the structure helps me get back faster and with less self-recrimination.

On chaotic mornings I swear by tiny rituals that quietly glue us together. We do simple stuff: a quick hug before the day starts, a shared playlist for the commute, and a five-minute check-in where we say one thing we’re anxious about and one small win. Those moments feel almost silly but they create a rhythm — tiny deposits in a bank of goodwill. I also try to keep curiosity alive. Instead of assuming I know how my partner feels, I ask a question that isn’t about logistics: ‘What made you laugh yesterday?’ or ‘Is there a thing you wish we did more often?’ That curiosity makes disagreements less like battles and more like puzzles to solve together. And when things are tense, I default to practical kindness: make coffee, take the dog out, or text a single emoji that says ‘I’m here.’ It’s not glamorous, but steady tiny efforts add up in surprisingly big ways and leave me feeling connected rather than resentful.